


Phare, Phare Away

by LateStarter58



Series: Sarah's Smutty Notebook [16]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Loneliness, Older Woman/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 20:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17066627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Leo needs a complete break, and her friends need a favour. All she has to do is wait for the mysterious Mr Hathaway to show up at the cottage next door.





	Phare, Phare Away

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to celebrate getting 700 followers on my Tumblr blog in 2015. Seems like a long time ago now! Please excuse the terrible pun in the title. It was irresistible, seeing as how the French for lighthouse is phare…

# Part I

_Who is that woman in the mirror? That miserable, fat, ugly specimen?_

I was used to the fat and ugly aspect, but I had been trying hard not to be miserable. But I was, and it was eating into my whole existence. I needed the sea. That was it. The sea has always helped me get stuff into perspective.

Get _me_ into perspective.

Actually, what I really needed was Matt back and a break from the relentless loneliness of widowhood, but that wasn’t going to happen; maybe the sea would help a little.

‘You’ll be doing us a massive favour, Leo.’ Annie was squeezing my arm as she stood beside me in my kitchen. We don’t really want to go all the way over there and then hang about, maybe for days. This guy is being vague about arrival times and how long he’s staying. If you’re next door anyway, well, problem solved!’

‘But the dogs, it’s too much to ask,’ I protested, ‘you have to let me pay you something…’

‘I won’t hear of it, and I think Steve would divorce me if I charged you a penny.’

I am a woman, by the way. Yeah, I know, Leo sounds like a bloke’s name, yeah, yeah. My full name is Leonora (my parents were Beethoven fans and opera people. Dad was a répétiteur at Covent Garden; it could have been much worse, believe me). No way I was gonna let anybody shorten it to ‘Nora’, so Leo it has been since I started school. I like it. It’s different. And I love the surprise people get when they meet me.

Matt always used to say it suited me perfectly. I think what he meant was I lack some of the feminine graces, like, well, grace. And charm. But I hope I make up for it with my caustic wit and slightly surreal sense of humour. And my brains. And my cooking. And frankly, if I don’t, so what? I am what I am…

So, anyway, back to Annie. Her face was set: there was no point in me arguing. I had known her and Steve for five years, since my late husband and I moved over here, and they had become kind, generous and reliable friends. When he died, they were there for me; now I was struggling, in need of an escape, and they were letting me stay in one of their gîtes out on the coast for ten days, maybe a tad more if the weather suited. The only price was an hour or so’s work: open up the adjoining property, fill the fridge and cupboards for the expected guest; make up his bed and light a fire the day he arrives. Apart from that, just clear away and lock up when he leaves. I would have been a fool to turn down the offer.

 A week later she was handing me a folder with all the paperwork I needed, along with the keys for all three properties. As well as the converted cottages – oh my, wait ‘til I tell you about those! – they also bought a disused lighthouse just down from the clifftop. They planned to convert that too, one day, but getting planning permission was taking a while. Well, this is France… I had seen pictures on their Facebook page and I could hardly wait to see it in the flesh, so to speak. Of course, February isn’t the ideal time to visit the Brittany coast, especially not that part which juts out into the Atlantic Ocean, but it was exactly what I needed: remote, unspoilt.

Nature in the raw; but with a luxurious place to stay: my kind of getaway.

I left my canine pals at Annie’s with hardly a backward glance. When there were two of us it wasn’t so bad, but two slightly neurotic dogs, one of them genuinely grieving for Matt, were a lot of work for me on top of everything else. And this winter had been a grind: very cold and wet, so every walk meant a big clean-up, if we could get out at all. We needed a break from each other, I needed a change of scene, and now was the time, with the second anniversary of Matt’s death looming. He hadn’t been retired long (he was a copper – they get to retire nice and early) and we had so many plans, but one chilly day he dropped dead in the garden, just like that. I couldn’t face looking out at the spot next week, remembering how all my hopes and plans, all my expectations for the future had ended up in a heap in the mud of our vegetable patch.

The drive to the coast took forever. I knew it was a long way, but I managed to find every tractor in Finistère and all the road works the region had going, so it was more or less dark when I got to the end of the narrow lane which led out to what felt like the end of the world. I had passed a few buildings along the twisty, high-hedged road, but no lights were on. Annie had told me that most of the properties around about were holiday homes, and February just isn’t high season. It looked as if the mystery man and I would be alone out here. Good.

_As long as he’s not a psycho._

At last I saw the sign: _La Phare de l’Ouest._ Despite the dark, the first thing I did was to walk up the stony path and look down at the lighthouse. It no longer works, of course, but every few minutes the beam from its newer, high-tech replacement on the next cape would catch the lenses in the lantern and it was reborn briefly. I could just make out the shape of the building against the rocky shore and the churning sea: there was narrow bridge over a chasm you had to cross to reach it.

_Maybe tomorrow. If the wind drops._

My knees felt funny, just thinking about that bridge; my masculine qualities don’t stretch to physical bravery.

Now, let me tell you about these cottages. They nestle in a slight dip, partially below the level of the cliff, so not totally exposed to the Atlantic gales. Surrounded by grassy slopes they look like something from a fairy-tale, with sweet twisty gravel paths and steps leading to the parking area and up towards the cliffs and the sea view. Like most traditional buildings hereabouts they are made of stone, with a slate roof. Once a single large dwelling, Annie and Steve had made two gîtes for two people out of it. Both were restored and converted to the highest possible standard: wet rooms, wood floors, a fancy mezzanine bedroom, up-to-the-minute kitchens, luxury furnishings, flash TVs and Blu Ray players, big wood burners and supplementary electric heating. Only one thing was missing: communication with the outside world. That was the idea: it was meant to be a complete break from everyday life. There was a landline in the cottage I was using, for emergencies, but no internet access, no Wi-Fi, no mobile signal. You had to drive all the way to the nearest town, about 40 minutes along narrow lanes to get even one bar.

Knowing this, I had brought plenty to watch with me, and books to read. And my laptop, just in case I was able to write, but that seemed unlikely given the drought I was in. The weather forecast wasn’t great, but the electricity supply was pretty secure: all but the HT lines tend to be buried in France, so unless there was a problem at the substation or something, I’d be OK. There was a massive pile of logs, so that was sorted. I unpacked, carefully arranging my movies by the TV. If you saw them you might notice a theme: they all starred one particular actor. I am way too old to have crushes, but this guy is pretty special, and my affection for him has been a great help to me these past two years.

So yeah, shut up. If I want to fangirl at my age over Tom Hiddleston, brainiac and all-round perfect person, then I’m going to. Anyone who disapproves of a late-forties plump fangirl can fuck the fuck off, as Malcom Tucker would say.

So, once I had stowed the basic provisions I had brought  along in the kitchen, got my bed ready and lit the fire, I sat down to read through the instructions Annie had given me. It was pretty straightforward. The only tricky thing seemed to be this particular client. He was vague about his arrival time in his email: _I haven’t booked a flight yet, not sure when I can get away…_ And he didn’t know how long he would be staying: _it depends on a few factors outside my control._

Yeah, I bet. Sounds like a right tit.

Annie told me his was paying extra for the inconvenience, so she didn’t really care; especially now I had solved the main problem for her. And he sounded like he needed a break as much as I did: _the isolation and remoteness sound perfect._

I looked at the other sheets of paper. There was a shopping list, made to his specifications too. Nothing fancy, just basic French ingredients, and some wine, of course. He wanted good stuff – that made me warm to him a little, and it balanced out the disgustingly healthy stuff he wanted. He requested local produce where possible, so I made a list ready for my trip to town the next day. The market was there on a Tuesday, so I should be able to find plenty of the things he had asked for. Brittany is the market garden of France: if you eat a cauliflower anywhere in the country, it was almost certainly grown up here in the windswept North West.  

My other duties were to air the house a little, put sheets on the bed and light a fire when I had an ETA. Annie was going to ring with that final detail tomorrow, she hoped. I made myself some beans on toast and settled down with my favourite movie: _Avengers._ After my gourmet dinner, I went to bed early, listening to the Atlantic breeze trying to lift the roof as I drifted off to sleep.

 

I was woken by the sun coming in through the Velux, right into my eye. I groaned a little, but sunshine is precious at this time of year, so I set off bright and early for town. The market was a little sparse but what stalls were there were well-stocked, and I had fulfilled all his and my requirements by the time I had visited the local _supermarché_  as well. I was beginning to feel more like myself than I had for ages. It might have been the sunshine, but I suspect that it was more to do with having a purpose outside my normal dull routine. I drove back singing along to a CD in the car, feeling happier – or at least, I can admit to less miserable than I had for months. And I had hardly even seen the sea yet.

Before I unloaded I took that walk again and admired the roaring Atlantic crashing onto the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. As soon as I had time I would make that journey, scary bridge or not. It would be thrilling to stand on the little walkway around the lantern and feel the power of the ocean. And it would make me realise how insignificant my troubles were in the greater scheme of things. Just what I needed.

_Don’t make plans_ : you’d think I’d have learned that, wouldn’t you? As soon as I opened the door to my cottage I saw the answerphone light flashing. It was Annie: the guest was due between five and six that night, so I had to get cracking. After putting my own groceries away, I went next door and got to it. The two properties were more or less identical, just mirror images of each other. The mezzanine sleeping areas backed onto each other, with the bathrooms below. The open-plan living areas were on the outer sides of the building, so my movie-watching shouldn’t disturb him, as long as I kept the volume moderate.

I unpacked his provisions: juice, fruit, lots of green stuff like spinach ( _yuk_ ), oats, bread and some French cheese and ham. Pasta, lardons, fish; apparently he was a cook. His wine choices were more my style, if a tad above my everyday budget: nice red Bordeaux, Champagne, some good Loire whites. Annie kept the cupboards stocked with plenty of basic items like oil and herbs and spices. I turned the tap on the gas bottle so his hob would work and checked that everything else looked OK.

The bed was next. Open the vents on the skylight window so there was a little air, get the linen out – high thread-count, nothing but the best – and made it up. It looked good, so I turned my attention to the towels and put the water-heater on so the bathroom was equally welcoming. Then I laid the fire ready to light nearer the time. Looking around I felt satisfied and went back to my side and had lunch.

I read for a while, then decided to watch a film. Given the wind still rattling the windows and tugging at the roof, I chose _Archipelago._ Always one of my favourite of his performances, the Scilly Isles location and the featured weather seemed the ideal match to my circumstances. Before I started it I popped next door and got the fire going. Once it was glowing nicely with a good-sized log on the top, I returned and settled down to bathe in the beauty of dear Edward.

At about 5.30 I heard what sounded like a car over the howling wind. I stood and looked out and sure enough, the mysterious and fickle Mr Hathaway had arrived. I paused my DVD and went to the door to greet him, but he beat me to it, knocking lightly as I approached. I open the door, ready to be polite and professional on Annie’s behalf, but I was struck dumb.

_It’s YOU_

There, in the doorway was a 6’2” vision of loveliness, curls atop his head, bright blue eyes in the most handsome face in Christendom, a warm-looking blue sweater showing from inside a black quilted jacket.  I glanced over my shoulder at the face frozen on the TV screen. The cognitive dissonance was hard to process.

I turned back to the man on the doorstep and managed to speak.

‘Welcome, Mr…’ Then it started: the laughing. It began as one of those giggles you get at inappropriate moments. You know the ones: at funerals or in lectures by the most grumpy or humourless professors. I tried to control it, but the situation was _so_ bizarre, _so_ surreal that I couldn’t get his assumed name out without the now-hysterical cackling.  Tom (because yes, of course, it was _HIM_ ) stood politely watching me, a look of puzzled amusement on his face. But as time went on and I remained unable to form a coherent sentence, I could see a slight irritation creeping in.

‘I’m sorry… _heeheehee …_ this is just so… _hahahaha …_ Look,’ I finally got a grip on myself. ‘I can’t pretend I don’t know who you are, Mr Hiddleston. ‘

Tom sucked air in through gritted teeth. ‘I am something of a fan, but I promise you, your privacy will be respected. I’m here for the same reason you are, no doubt: a complete break. And even if I wanted to do anything, which I don’t, I hasten to add, there is no internet out here.’

He smiled a little uncertainly. ‘Fair enough,’ he shrugged. ‘But what was so funny?’

I stepped aside and let him see the TV screen. His face lit up with his signature warm grin and he nodded. ‘Ah yes, I see.’

I fetched the keys for next door and took him across. He made all the right noises as I showed him around – well, what’s not to like? The place is fabulous.  After I had done my duty I made to leave him to get on with it. I realised that I had begun to shake. Now the humour of the situation had passed, I was suddenly aware that the subject of all my recent sexual fantasies was going to be sleeping on the other side of the wall for at least a few nights. The vivid beauty of him, the scent, the physical reality of him suddenly came crashing in on me and I felt faint.

‘Are you OK, Mrs Ling?’

‘Leo, please call me Leo,’ I spluttered.

‘ _Leo_?’ That smile was back. I felt even more light-headed.

‘Yes, I know: _weird_ , right? It’s Leonora really, but I like Leo. My parents named me after the heroine of _Fidelio._ You know, the Beethoven opera.’

He nodded, still smiling. ‘Buffs were they?’

‘You could say that. And it could have been worse.’

He lifted one of those eyebrows (you know, the _sexy_ ones). ‘Oh yes?’

‘Well, I might have been Ariadne, or Gilda, or ’ I shuddered. ‘… Brünhilde’

Now it was his turn to laugh, and I felt my nerves dissolving. He followed me out to fetch his bags from the hire-car, and I airily invited him for a drink later. Nodding, he accepted and I went into my half of the building to throw myself onto the sofa. The cushions would muffle my screams.

 

How I got through sitting opposite him at the table and drinking wine I don’t know. When I closed the door behind him I collapsed from the sheer effort of keeping it together. I mean, I came out to this place to re-set, to reacquaint myself with how insignificant I am in the universe, and here I am feet – no _inches_ – away from the sexiest man alive.

And it might as well be miles.

I am too old, too fat and definitely too ugly to be of interest to him, as a woman, anyway. He seemed to enjoy my company, and only flinched a bit when he saw the pile of DVDs and Blu Rays which might as well be in a box marked _‘I’m your biggest faaahhhnnn’…_

I was very chilled, I thought, and he made it easy. As long as I didn’t look at him too much I was OK. He was funny and we talked about all kinds of things. He asked about my circumstances (Annie had said I was a friend and neighbour) and he was kind and said the right things. He uttered none of the bland condolences, but rather he expressed an understanding of how painful my life must be now and how hard it must have been to readjust without Matt.

My overwhelming memory of that evening was how quickly I became my normal self. Almost instantly I could tell it was OK to talk the way I do with friends – which means a degree of fruity language and dirty jokes – and that there was no need to hold back. Just about the only thing I didn’t do was talk about how much I’d like to fuck Tom Hiddleston (a fairly standard topic between me and some of my online friends). That felt like a no-go area, for some odd reason…

‘Is the lighthouse part of the property?’

‘Yes it is. I have a key, actually.’ _Oh great! He can hold my hand (and whatever else he chooses) on that bridge!_

Could we take a look tomorrow, if you’ve nothing else on?’

_Wild horses couldn’t drag…_

‘I have no particular plans. Sounds good.’ (See how cool I was? I amazed myself.)

I slept fitfully. I daren’t get out my little buddy, in case he could hear it through the wall. And I had developed a tendency to say his name (and I don’t mean ‘Loki’- which would have been bad enough) at moments of, ahem, shall we say, ‘heightened excitement’. It was all helping my recovery, but if he were to… No. So, no relaxing orgasm to send me off, and the knowledge he was so near and yet… No. Sleep was a stranger.

…..

The next morning I wasn’t at my best; not on what felt like two hours of sleep, but my senses were sharp, that’s for sure. Every thud or muffled squeak from next door set my pulse racing and my mind into a spin: _is he naked? Is he dressing? Ooh that’s the door, he must be running (scrabbles for window)… He’s back! How long till he knocks about the lighthouse? Get the make up on - now!_

I managed to swallow a little breakfast and dosed myself up with coffee, ready for the call. I tried to read, but even the masterly skills of John Le Carré couldn’t distract me from the thought that the star of _The Night Manager_ would be knocking on my door at some time in the next (I checked my watch) _eight hours or so_ (we hadn’t specified morning or afternoon, let alone a time). I could hear the wind howling again, so that bridge was going to be an ordeal.

The sound I was eagerly anticipating came at about ten. I leapt off the sofa but started to lose my nerve half-way to the door. It was full daylight now. I looked every one of my two score years and _mumble, mumble…_ Oh well, too late to back out now. I opened up and I think I emitted an audible gasp.

He was wearing THE CARDIGAN.

You all know the one: black, designer, with a quirky zip arrangement. He was holding his quilted jacket – another familiar garment – and he was smiling. I forgot to speak. I may have forgotten to breathe.

‘Can I come in for a sec?’

‘Oh! Oops! Of course! Sorry…’

I stepped aside and he wafted past. Oh god, he smelled glorious. There was moisture in his hair, I could see it: he was freshly showered. My mind went there; I went into a momentary trance. When I looked at his face he was smiling that half-smile that I absolutely LOVE, so I had to turn away. I went to fetch the key to the _phare_ and my coat and we set off.

The wind was gusting, and as he reached the top of the rise (well ahead of huffing and puffing me) he had to hold his coat against himself. ‘Woah! That’s fresh!’

‘That’s what you get here. Ocean breezes…’

He stood fastening his jacket and that gave me chance to catch up. We walked towards the sea, the sound of the angry waves clawing at the shore getting steadily louder.

‘Wow, that’s incredible!’ He had stopped to admire the view. He was right: the lighthouse stood on a rocky outcrop below the cliffs, and that day massive dark blue and white waves were breaking high up its seaward side. Bright sunshine glinted off the sea, and tufts of white cloud were scudding across the blue sky. The narrow path that led down looked safe enough, but the wind made it feel very dangerous. I was struggling to keep my feet in the stronger gusts. Tom noticed my discomfort and extended a long arm towards me. I reached for his hand and my stomach did several somersaults when his warm fingers enveloped mine. At least I was able to cross that terrifying bridge, because the only thing I could think of, all the way across, was _‘I’m holding Tom Hiddleston’s hand’._

The door to the lighthouse was on the leeward side, so it was sheltered as we got close to the building. I struggled with the stiff lock until long elegant fingers intervened. The door creaked like a horror film sound effect as we went in and surveyed the derelict space inside. Bits of wood and cobwebs seemed to be the main decorative features. There was a spiral staircase leading down into a basement and up to the lamp, metal and rusting. Tom was up the stairs before I had time to decide if it was safe, and of course I followed him.

The view from the lamp room was disappointing: the glass was filthy and covered with salt-water residue. I had a trump card, however: another key which opened the door onto the narrow walkway outside. I held it up and indicated the door: Tom’s face was a picture of enthusiasm. He really is a kid inside; it’s very endearing. I unlocked the door and he was out like a flash and round to the front to take the full blast of the Atlantic gale. I kept near the door, out of the wind as much as possible.

I think Tom would have stayed out there for hours, but it was freezing, and after about ten minutes of hanging off the railing and watching the water smashing onto the rocks and the base of the tower, he came back in and we returned to the cottages. He was gracious and charming, expressing his gratitude to me and once again he held my hand against the ravages of the wind as we climbed back up the cliff path. I offered him lunch but he declined, saying he planned a long walk. He did, however accept my dinner invitation, so when I got back indoors I spent the next two hours in a panic, trying to decide what to cook.

…..

It came down to having little or no choice. I had to use the ingredients I had bought which were designed to my personal taste. I popped next door to check if he ate offal, and his confirmation meant that I could go ahead with the chicken-liver pasta I have made something of a speciality of mine. The best thing about it is that it’s really quick, so I wouldn’t spend all afternoon cooking. He was expected at 6.30, so at six I made a quick smoked salmon salad for a starter and laid the table.

Then I went into the bathroom and gave myself a talking-to.

_He is the most gorgeous man in the world but he’s not here for that. Not with you, anyway._

I surveyed the wreckage: a stone and a half of excess baggage, wrinkles around my eyes and grey hairs where the colour was growing out: I was hardly a starlet.

_Just enjoy yourself; talk to him, find out something special and secret you can treasure and be happy that this miracle has happened to you._

He knocked on the door at exactly 6.30: I called from the kitchen to tell him to come in. When I turned around he was in the middle of the room. He looked fabulous. Cowboy boots (I LOVE those), black jeans, a cashmere sweater in grey and his leather jacket (again, you all know the one). I took that from him and then he handed me the bottle of Champagne I had furnished him with.

‘Seems like a sharing thing, Champagne, don’t you think?’

I could feel an idiot grin on my face, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

‘It will go perfectly with dinner, but why don’t you open it now?’

I fetched the flutes – another great thing about these gîtes is they have beautiful glassware and china. None of that mismatched or ancient cast-offs here! Tom opened the bottle expertly and poured us one each.

‘To the future.’

I smiled. ‘To another successful year for you.’ He blushed. Yes, actually blushed.

‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’

‘Oh darling, I assure you, my motives are not entirely selfless.’ I let my eyes skim over the pile of his back catalogue on the TV unit. He wandered over and looked through them. When he turned back to face me he was blushing even more.

‘You really are a fan, then.’

I shifted a little uncomfortably. I could hardly deny it, but I didn’t want him to think I was a loon. ‘I will admit to that, yes, but I am in a group of more… _mature_ enthusiasts, shall we say. We accept your right to a private life and I would never want to do anything to upset you or make you uncomfortable.’

He smiled graciously and raised his glass. ‘To my more _mature_ fans. ‘

‘Can I pass that on, one day? A long time from now?’

He nodded and the conversation moved on. There were times when he was telling me a story I had heard or read before, but I pretended I hadn’t because his voice was so captivating, and his face when he talked was bewitching. We ate and drank moderately but he seemed to like my food. He insisted on helping me clear up and ate two slices of the supermarket tart I had in the fridge. We had coffee by the fire, starting out at opposite ends of the large couch discussing Chekov (I did Russian A-level) and Shakespeare. I’m not quite sure how, but we were getting closer and closer, especially after the cognacs were poured, and I dared, finally, to ask him something that had been burning a hole in my tongue since he arrived.

_No, not that. Honestly, get your minds OUT of his trousers!_

‘Can I ask you a personal question? I won’t be offended if you say no.’

‘Go ahead. If I don’t want to answer, I won’t.’

‘Why have you come out here, on your own, to the middle of nowhere, Tom? What’s going on?’

‘Ah. Well, you see…’

And that’s when the lights went out.

 

____________________________________________

 

# Part 2      

 

‘Oh fuck.’

‘Ehehehe…’

I jumped up. ‘I know where there’s a torch. Hold still.’

It wasn’t completely dark; the fire was throwing a flickering orange light around the room, enough to navigate to the kitchen by, anyway. I found the torch in a drawer and with it I was able to locate the candles I had spotted the day before. Soon we were bathed in soft light. I liked it. It was much kinder on my face.

‘Will it be off for long, do you think?’

‘Hard to tell,’ I shrugged. ‘It must be a problem with the transmission lines or a sub-station. This wind no doubt. They are normally pretty efficient at restoring the supply. I’m afraid there’s no hot water, and no heating apart from the fires, until it’s reconnected.’

Tom smiled. ‘We’ll just have to stay snuggled up on here then, won’t we?’ He patted the seat next to him, inviting me to stop fiddling with the candles and re-join him on the sofa.

Well, what would you have done? I mean, it was only polite…

We sat, sipping our brandies and silently contemplating the flames for a while. Apart from the howling wind screaming around the eaves, the only sounds were our breathing and the occasional spit or pop from the logs on the fire. It was peaceful; companionable. There was none of the awkwardness you might expect when alone with a new acquaintance, let alone someone you – _quite literally_ – fancy the pants off.  I let my mind drift. This was the first evening I had spent alone with a man since Matt died. It could hardly be with a more unlikely person, but nonetheless, here we were. Then I remembered I never got my answer.

I looked at his lovely profile, back-lit by the candle on the table beside him. His face was serious, but calm.

‘You never answered my question.’ He took in a breath sharply. ‘It’s OK,’ I continued, ‘you can tell me to fuck off. I won’t be offended.’

He was smiling now. I ploughed on, giving him time to decide. ‘I mean, I saw you on TV at the BAFTAs – and all the pictures, of course – and it was your birthday on Monday,’ he was nodding in agreement, ‘ and it strikes me as a bit odd that you’ve come all the way out here…’ I paused, wondering if I was going too far. _No. I might as well do it_. ‘…on your own.’

It was a while before he spoke. I kept quiet, letting him think. He had no obligation to tell me anything, and for all he knew I might take off in the morning and plaster any confidences all over Tumblr or Twitter. I hoped he had picked up that I wasn’t like that, but I also knew that someone in his position had to be guarded with new people. I enjoyed the wait; I spent it gazing at him, at the way the shadows accentuated his cheekbones, at how straight and noble his nose was, at the freckles on his neck. As I watched, he took in a long breath and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

‘As you probably know, Leo,’ he began, turning to face me. ‘I’ve got a pretty full year ahead.’ I nodded, adjusting my position to mirror his. ‘I’ve had a lovely few weeks, seeing friends, Christmas with family, all that, but I felt I needed a total escape. Only for a few days; just me and the sea and the wind. No scripts, no lines to learn, no emails or texts. No _fans…’_ He poked me teasingly on the arm with one of those long fingers and I shrugged apologetically.

‘Sorry about that.’ He shrugged back. ‘But surely there’s someone you’d want to bring with you, Tom? I know you keep that all private, but there must be…’

He shook his head, and the eye-contact was so intense I felt my pulse speed up. ‘There was someone,’ a deep sigh left him in a shuddering breath, ‘but a few months ago she decided she couldn’t cope with…’ he trailed off, making a vague gesture.

‘…the shitstorm?’ I offered.

He nodded mutely. It took every ounce of my self-control not to fling myself at him. He looked so sad it was heart-breaking.

‘That was another reason for coming. I need to think.’

There was something I wanted to say, but it wasn’t really my place. I had no knowledge of this woman, but one thing was clear to me. So, being big-mouthed Leo who hates to see people she loves in pain, I said it.

‘You know, it might be a good thing. When you find that someone who loves you enough, none of that will matter.’ He squeezed my arm. On top of the intense gaze it was overwhelming, but I could see he was near to tears, so I let him gather himself together. Then he turned the tables.

‘Tell me, _Leo,_ ’ I loved how my name sounded in his mouth, because he seemed to relish it, like a mouthful of that champagne we had put away earlier, ‘why did _you_ need to come out here?’

I broke eye-contact to think more clearly. I didn’t want to sound whiney and pathetic, not to him, but however you looked at it, I was being like that. Compared to his situation, mine seemed a bit, well, _pedestrian._

‘It’s not very dramatic or anything. I’m lonely, bored and, with all the wet weather we’ve had, I just felt trapped in the four walls of the house. It’s the anniversary of Matt’s death at the weekend and I just couldn’t face being there, alone, for it. I’ve always found the sea therapeutic, so I asked Annie about renting for a day or two. Little did I know they actually needed help with a difficult client; so here I am.’ I winked clumsily.

He squeezed my arm again; I hadn’t noticed that his hand was still there. ‘You must miss your husband terribly.’

I knew he was trying to draw me out. I hadn’t been as candid as he had because I’m not proud of how I feel. I know that it’s part of normal grieving, but I hate myself sometimes.

‘Yes, I do.’ I paused. I didn’t want Tom to think less of me, but there was an atmosphere of frankness between us; I bared my soul. ‘The truth is I’m angry with Matt for leaving me alone. There are days when I hate him.’ The pressure on my arm increased a little. I stood up to break it. I didn’t feel at that moment that I deserved his sympathy.

‘Ours wasn’t a perfect marriage by any means. We nearly split a few times, especially after my miscarriages, but things were getting better between us. We were best friends, which is what you need in the end.’ I looked into the fire, ‘And now I have nothing.’

Tom got up and came over to where I stood fighting the tears which were welling up. He wrapped his long arms around me and I crumpled into his embrace. I can cope most of the time as long as people aren’t kind to me: that always makes me cry. I have no idea how long we stood like that; me sobbing into his cashmere-covered chest, him holding me tightly against him. I kept trying to pull myself together, but I had been holding some of this in for months, and his gentle coaxing had opened the floodgates. Eventually I got a grip before it became too embarrassing.

‘I’m sorry, Tom. Oh shit!’ I realised there was make-up on his sweater. ‘Oh fuck, I’m really sorry!’

I stepped back and searched around for tissues or something to wipe my snotty face with. I felt a linen handkerchief being pressed into my palm.  I used it.

‘Not a problem.’ His voice was soft, like velvet.

‘But it is! You only have a few clothes.’

His gaped at me. ‘ _What_?’

‘You think we don’t monitor your outfits, Tom?’ I warmed to my subject, glad to get the attention back onto him. ‘You haven’t worn anything here I don’t feel I know intimately. It seems you just have a few shirts, hardly any t-shirts, and the ones you like you wear until they are see-through. Don’t tell me _that’s_ not deliberate. And those _hideous_ grey trousers, a couple of hoodies…’ He was laughing now, throwing his head back and roaring. It warmed my heart, dried my remaining tears and broke the tension.

Or so I thought.

He caught my hand suddenly and pulled me back into his arms. I gasped – who wouldn’t – and looked up into his face for guidance. What was happening? Before I could say anything, his lips brushed mine. I have no idea why this happened, other than that the darkness and the fire and the way we had been talking lent the evening an air of intimacy that intoxicated us both.  My mind raced.

_I am not attractive. I am not young. I am not slim_. I suddenly felt terrified.

‘Tom,’ I breathed against his mouth, aware of the taste of raspberries, wine and cognac on his lips, ‘I... we… _you_ can’t want…’

There was some compelling evidence to the contrary; I could feel it pressing into my fat stomach.

‘Shhhh…’

His hands were caressing my arms, palms on the down-stroke, fingers climbing and teasing on the up-stroke. I felt light-headed, as if I was losing touch with reality. The smell of him enveloped me and somehow my hands found their way to his neck, clasping behind it as he deepened the kiss. I was wearing a long woollen tunic. I had chosen it because it skims over the lumps and bumps, but now I was aware that his hands were inside it.

_Oh well, too late to worry now. Just hang on and enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts, anyway._

But I _was_ worried; terrified, as I said. Matt loved and wanted me, but he had known me for twenty-five years, and that meant he still saw the young me when we made love; he remembered how I was when we met. Tom had never seen that person, and he was going to find out any second just exactly how bad things had got. I pulled back. I could not bear the thought of it.

‘What is it, Leo?’

‘We can’t, Tom. I’m too old, too fat…’

He shook his head and looked at me intensely again. I felt my insides melting, but I knew that he did that all the time. I had to take charge of the situation before the humiliation became too awful.

‘I _am_ , Tom. Please. Stop before you find out just how ugly it is under here.’ He shook his head again, more vehemently this time, and took hold of my hands once more.

‘No. Look, if you don’t want this then we’ll stop, of course. But I think you _do_ want it, and I _definitely_ do. You think I care about stuff like how old you are?’

I knew he didn’t. I knew he was a better man than that. But I wasn’t thinking straight. All I could think was _this is actually happening and I don’t know if I can cope and he’s kissing me again and it feels so good._

I thanked the firelight and the candles again: I didn’t doubt they helped. I simply allowed things to happen after that, let him take the lead. Hands were lifting up my clothes, undoing them, touching me and I knew I was moaning but I made very few noises voluntarily. His lips skimmed over my burning flesh. I felt younger than I had in years: my nerves were singing, my senses were alive with him. The soft curls on his head, the short hair I grazed my fingernails through to scratch the back of his neck. The deep, intensely _male_ noises that came from somewhere in his chest and made my centre turn liquid.

Somehow we were back on the sofa, and I silently gave thanks that Annie had chosen such a generously proportioned design. It was soft on the skin too I discovered as I was gently persuaded onto my back. Nothing was rough: there was only tenderness, patience and care. He knew my situation; he had to guess I had not been with anyone but my husband in decades. And he was all too well aware (or at least he had to suspect) that he, Thomas William Hiddleston, was the subject of many a sexual fantasy in my head.

And he must have decided to make them all come true.

I soared, high, flying on the winds that blew around the house; I called his name a thousand times; I gazed disbelieving at the Adonis above me, beside me, _inside me._ His mouth was amazing. His hands were large, dextrous, _talented._ His skin was soft over hard muscle and smooth except where those hairs decorated his sternum or pointed the way to heaven. I touched everything I could reach.

And as for that other question you all have (don’t try to deny it. Remember: I live on Tumblr too)?

Yes.

As advertised.

……….

Once again, the sun woke me, shining through the floor-height Velux to the right of my bed.  I knew Tom was there. I could feel the weight of him against my back, hear his steady breathing and relish the fact that his arm was on me, resting on my hip. I slipped carefully out from under it; I needed to get the mess off my face. When I had crept as quietly as I could down the wooden stairs I saw in the bathroom mirror that I had been right: I resembled the lead singer from The Cure. I quickly dealt with that, but the harsh light also reminded me that I was not a young girl anymore. I sat at the kitchen table waiting for the kettle to boil, trying to get my head around what had happened and only dimly registering that the power must have come back on during the night.

I took two cups of tea upstairs and as I put his on the bedside table he turned and opened his eyes.

‘Hello.’

I smiled. I daren’t speak, as if my voice would break the spell and he would disappear in a puff of smoke. He looked as gorgeous as ever. Bed hair suits him; can you believe that? The man is relentlessly attractive. I went back to my side of the bed and got in, keeping my robe on. A hand slid inside it and squeezed a boob.

‘I hope you’re not intending to keep that on.’ He winked salaciously at me and then sat up and picked up his tea. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

I sipped my tea and pondered this for a moment. How did I feel? It was hard to quantify: different, certainly; sated (although that was wearing off, especially after seeing him again); happy?

‘I feel like a woman again.’

‘Oh darling, you were always a woman; take it from me.’

The hand was back and it didn’t mess around this time. I leaned over to put my tea down and as I turned back his lips crushed mine. One finger, then another slipped easily inside me; just being near him made me wet. I reached for him and he moaned into my mouth. If I thought he might be uncomfortable or embarrassed in the cold light of day, I could not have been more wrong. His free hand ran over my all-too generous curves. I might have been uncomfortable had he not made it abundantly clear that he liked my shape the night before. One part, or rather _two_ parts in particular, met with his approval especially, judging by the amount of time he spent on them.

But this morning he had other plans, apparently. I found myself on my hands and knees and the _sword of Corioles_ (as I had named it the night before) was wielded without delay.  I was floating again, borne along by his strength and the pleasure he gave me. Every thrust brought me closer to my release, his hands and lips on me made my whole body sing with joy.  I didn’t know it could be like this; I didn’t know I could feel like this with anyone else; I never expected to feel like this again. Afterwards, as Tom held me close and nuzzled my neck I tried to memorise every sensation. I had the feeling this was going to end as suddenly as it began and I didn’t want to waste a minute. I felt him take a deep breath and sigh contentedly.

‘Everything alright?’

‘Yes, Leo. I was just thinking that I’ve got four more days.’

‘Until you go back to London?’

‘Yes. When are you leaving?’

‘Not until after you do. I’ve got to close up, remember.’

His fingers traced the side of my face, the tips brushing my lips. ‘Good.’

…..

Valentine’s Day will never be a good day for me, not any more. I lost the love of my life on 14thFebruary 2013 and that’s hard to put out of your mind. But Tom tried his best to help me do just that. He cooked me a lovely dinner: seafood, steak with homemade Béarnaise sauce, chocolate fondant… He really is quite the chef. And he drove into town for the ingredients plus more champers and lovely wine. And roses. As he put it, he wasn’t trying to replace Matt, just to remind me that I was still worthy of this sort of attention.

He really is as charming, kind and thoughtful as he appears.

Now, looking back on it, I think I understand what happened between us. I was lonely, desperate for intimacy of a kind I had thought gone from my life forever. Tom was looking for a connection without complications; closeness without commitment. We each gave the other what they needed. And he left me with enough memories to last me as long as I need them.

The Sunday afternoon before his departure we went down to the _phare_ again. The weather was much quieter now, and I might have managed the little bridge without his assistance, but by then we were touching each other all the time. We both walked round to the front of the walkway and gazed out across the ocean. It was quite peaceful, with only a slight swell moving the water against the rocks below us. Such is the size and power of the Atlantic that nevertheless I could feel the waves and hear the weight of them breaking on the shore. There were gulls calling and I could see a few fishing boats bobbing, probably collecting lobsters and crabs from the sea bed. I took a deep draught of the freshest air you can imagine. I felt better than I had in years.

The sun was beginning to sink into the western horizon, meaning the temperature was dropping like a stone. I soon started to shiver and Tom pulled me into a hug for warmth, kissing the top of my head as he did so. It soon developed into something else and we hurried back to the cottages. When he closed the door behind us I heard him say my name softly. I turned and saw his beautiful face looking sad.

‘Oh Tom.’

‘Leo. This has been wonderful. You have been amazing.’

I reached up and stroked the side of his face. His eyes closed as my fingers touched his cheek and his hand covered mine, then he brought it to his mouth for a kiss on the palm.

‘Thank you Tom. These have been the most magical few days of my life. I will never forget this.’

He led me up the stairs and we made love for the last time. He was as gentle and caring as he had been that first night, making me feel - as he had every time - like the most desirable, the most beautiful woman in the world. I’m not an idiot, I know that I am not that, not for more than 99.99% of the population; but for Tom Hiddleston, for those five February days and nights in a remote place on the extreme left-hand corner of France, that is what I was.

The difference between us is that he actually _is_ the most desirable, the most beautiful man in the world for me. And he always will be.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Anyone for Tennis?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17066789) by [LateStarter58](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58)




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